


Through the dark side of the morning

by queenofchildren



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Arranged Marriage, But also, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Rosaline is a badass, bonding over dead friends, but also flawed and hurt and softer than she'd like to be, no one else#, so slightly morbid and angsty, so the major character deaths are Romeo and Juliet and Mercutio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 13:52:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11105904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: Three weeks into their marriage, Benvolio keeps sneaking out to his old haunts, and Rosaline is starting to get annoyed - until one night, she follows him and understands something that will change their relationship.





	Through the dark side of the morning

 

> _Who's gonna walk you through the dark side of the morning?_
> 
> _Who's gonna rock you when the sun won't let you sleep?_

 

Her husband was sneaking out again.

Rosaline heard the sound of his boots on the stairs, recognizable by the little spring in his step despite the heavy spurred boots, then a few murmured words to the guard at the door, and then the door of their new home, a modest Palazzo near the river, creaked open to allow him out into the night.

For three weeks, Rosaline had been married to Benvolio of House Montague. And for three weeks, every night without fail, he had snuck out of the house. She would have suspected a sweetheart somewhere, a lover that had been torn from him in Escalus' peace-making scheme. But the servants brought back only reports of him spending his time at the taverns around Via Frata, where he used to head for a night of revelry with his friends all too often before their deaths.

In truth, she did not care either way – was glad to have him out of the house, in fact, where grief and resentment seemed to poison the air around them whenever they were forced to spend time together. They kept up the facade of a reasonably content couple for the sake of their servants, many of whom were no doubt being paid to report back on their every move to either of their houses. They had lunch or supper in the garden together when Benvolio wasn't called away for some duty or other, and dined together in the evening when they were not invited to some social gathering. They even slept in the same bed, though they hardly spent any shared time in there in any case. Rosaline usually went to bed early, for lack of anything to occupy her time now that she suddenly found herself mistress instead of serving girl, and by the time Benvolio returned from his exploits near dawn, reeking of wine, she was almost ready to get up again, still used to early mornings and enjoying the peace and quiet they brought.

But it was precisely the fact that they put so much effort into appearing a successful match that made it so irritating to see her husband pursue his own pleasure so shamelessly. What was the point of making stilted conversation at the dinner table and putting up with his snoring when all the servants talked about were his nightly adventures away from the marriage bed?

No, Rosaline decided, she was going to put a stop to this. She hadn't abandoned her dream of retreating to a nunnery and living a life of her own choosing to wed this... toad, only for him to continue in his debauched ways as if nothing at all had changed.

She'd go after him and drag him back home by his ears like an unruly child if necessary – but she'd have to be careful about it. Their marriage may have forged a temporary peace between Verona's warring families, but it was a fragile one, and one which too many people were dissatisfied with. Quickly, Rosaline dug out her old, modest servant's dress from the bottom of her trunk and put it on in exchange for her much grander evening gown. Over it, she put on a dark brown cape, pulling its hood over her hair, then walked over to the bedroom door to peer out through the keyhole.

Unlike her husband, Rosaline had spent enough time at home to know what the staff were up to, and had learned that the guard tended to get a little drowsy around this time of night, at which point he would head to the kitchen to talk the cook into indulging him with a luxurious cup of caffè, an invigorating brew the merchants of Verona had recently started to import from Venice.

As soon as the guard set off for his refreshment, she slipped quietly down the stairs and out the door, momentarily reminded of the many times she had snuck out of her parents' house years ago - though it had been to see a different man for different reasons back then, and it had been excitement making her blood race rather than anger.

But there was no use in such thoughts, she told herself, focusing instead on the street before her. Concealed by the wide sleeve of her cloak, she clutched a slim dagger - not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. Ever since her close encounter with a blood-thirsty ruffian in the street, she had taken to carrying the weapon with her, usually concealed in the folds of her dress. She had received unexpected help from her now-husband on that bloody day, but she would not allow herself to count on his protection in the future, even if she was now legally entitled to it.

But though her hand trembled around the dagger and she flinched every time she heard approaching footsteps, the trip was a quiet one, and soon Rosaline was making her way door to door down the few particularly infamous streets of the city, peering into taverns and brothels for a glimpse of her missing husband.

He would be easy enough to find, she expected, no doubt surrounded by a crowd of people, holding court and boasting of his heroic deeds, with an adoring woman on his lap perhaps. But to her surprise, he was alone, and her searching gaze almost passed over him before doubling back.

Tucked in the darkest corner of a particularly seedy establishment, Benvolio was peering forlornly into a half-empty, lead-rimmed glass beaker of rich red wine, looking for all the world as if he was trying to disappear into the dirty wall behind him.

And then she took a few steps closer and saw something that made her stop in her tracks as realisation dawned on her: Benvolio was not making merry, not carousing or whoring around.

He was _grieving_.

Half-slumped across a filthy table, he was staring emptily ahead through glazed, heavy-lidded eyes. One hand was clutching a thick glass beaker tight enough to make her fear that the glass, sturdy though it was, would crack and burst under his grip any second, but apart from that, he seemed completely devoid of any trace of the youthful vigor with which he had carried himself just a few scant weeks ago.

He looked tired, lost, and terribly, _terribly_ alone.

And, she realized in that moment, he truly was.

Lord Montague had never seemed a particularly kind man, and she wondered how much of Benvolio's growing up with Romeo's family had been because his uncle genuinely cared for his happiness, and how much of it had to do with the usefulness of having a spare heir around in case any harm should come to the intended one. Benvolio's presence here, tonight and too many nights before, suggested that returning to his childhood home in these hours of grief was either not an option, or not one he expected to find comfort in.

So, where Rosaline had, just this very afternoon, had a visit from her sister to weave a new wreath of flowers for Juliet's grave and exchange stories of their cousin's youthful misadventures, Benvolio had had nothing to sustaing him but the company of strangers and the comfort of strong, cheap wine.

For one instinctive moment, Rosaline wanted to close her eyes and harden her heart against this display of vulnerability, as she had learned to do over the years. He was, after all, a member of the family who had taken her father's and, indirectly, her mother's life. Should not that be reason enough for him to deserve every morsel of pain and regret now showing so clearly on his face?

But, with shame washing over her, she became aware of how callous such thinking was, how hard-hearted. Benvolio was not his family, and for all that they had hurt her, _he_ never had. He had, in his own way, tried to prevent the tragedy of Juliet's and Romeo's deaths, and if he was to blame for them, so was she. He did not deserve to suffer like this.

Before the thought was even fully formed in her head, she was moving again, weaving through the crowd of revelers to his table – only to find herself blocked at the last moment by a large, bull-necked man wearing the crest of House Capulet and clutching a sword in hand.

He was not, of course, blocking her specifically but rather, had simply beaten her to her target – with the clear intention of making it his target as well.

“What have we here? A Montague dog!”

From what little she could see around the man's broad back, Benvolio did not react with much more than a soft grunt, although that did not deter the man.

“You dare to show your face in this city, after all your family has done?”

Now, unfortunately, Benvolio did choose to answer, although Rosaline would have much preferred it if he had continued to sulk in near-stupefied silence.

“I'll have you know, I single-handedly brought peace to this fine and noble city. Married a shrieking harpy to do it too,“ he squinted up at the family crest emblazoned on the other man's doublet. “One of yours, I think, which I dare say makes me doubly punished.“

Despite this flippantly insulting description, a part of Rosaline was reluctantly amused by the statement – there was something to be said for seeing the grotesque humour in their situation, she had to admit.

Unfortunately, the man still standing between her and her half-drowned fool of a husband was not so amused.

"I will gut you like a pig, Montague."

He seemed intent on making good on that threat, for all the good it did at spurring Benvolio into action – her inebriated husband only shrugged, and made no move whatsoever to even arm himself against the looming attack.

Clearly, if anyone was going to defend him, it would have to be her. Steeling herself, Rosaline tapped the man on the shoulder, hard enough to make him whirl around.

“There will be no need for _gutting_. The harpy in question can defend her own house.“

For a moment, the man seemed flabbergasted, before he seemed to recognize her.

“Miss Ro... Lady Rosaline!“ Then realising that he was essentially being sent away from a clearly anticipated fight, he began to defend himself. “This man was insulting you. Allow me to teach him a lesson.“

"And where would be _your_ honour in that? He's so drunk he can barely stand. You might just as well fight me."

The man seemed unsure what to reply to that, but was apparently still in need of some convincing. Placing a light, placating hand on his arm, Rosalone leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Take a word of advice from me, good sir. This man, whom you are so eager to teach a lesson, is the current heir of House Montague. Prince Escalus places high hopes on him to keep this city at peace, and would not be happy to learn of his death - at the hands of a Capulet, no less, who have sworn to keep the peace with their old enemy. When I say leave him be and continue on your way, it is not _him_ I'm doing the favour. It's _you_."

And while the man still contemplated this, clearly not one of the fastest thinkers among the fighters sworn to her house, Rosaline quickly slipped past him, bent down by Benvolio's side, and slung his arm over her shoulder to heave him up.

He was heavy, despite having shed his padded leather jacket, and for a moment, she swayed on her feet.

Then Benvolio seemed to muster what little strength he had left in him to at least try and keep himself upright, and together, they managed to lurch out of the tavern, with only a quick stop to throw some coins down at the counter - "for his tab, and your discretion", as Rosaline pointed out to the barmaid, though she doubted the latter would be covered by the amount of silver she left behind, generous though it was.

She dragged him as far as she could, not wanting them to stay out here any longer than absolutely necessary while he was in this helpless state. But eventually, on a thankfully deserted little piazza near their home, her legs threatened to give out, and Rosaline decided she could allow them a short respite. She was tempted to simply drop her burden like a sack of flour, a fitting punishment for his excessive drinking, but pity won out and she gently lowered him on the steps of a nearby fountain, arms burning with the strain of it.

"I guess you can add 'drunkard' to your list of my faults," he slurred, not managing to keep an edge of bitterness out of his voice.

Hunched against the stone base of the fountain, his face grey in the dim moonlight, Benvolio was truly a pitiable sight. But stronger even than this current impression was the memory of how he had looked earlier, when she had first laid eyes on him at the tavern: how hopeless, and how utterly alone.

"I'll do no such thing," she replied and sat down next to him. "But I might have to add 'heartless' to the list of mine."

He indicated his surprise with a little jerk of his head, perhaps too exhausted to do much else, and she elaborated: "You lost the two people nearest and dearest to you in the world, and I left you alone with that loss. For that, I am sorry."

It was strange: she had imagined that it would be excruciating, impossible even, to say those words to him, to anyone bearing his family name - but it wasn't. The words did not come out easily, no, but come out they did, even if Benvolio did not seem to appreciate how much it had cost her to say them.

Instead, he merely stared at her silently for a long moment, face expressionless, eyes still a little clouded.

Then he scrambled to his feet, turned around, and dunked his head in the fountain behind them.

Startled, Rosaline climbed to her feet to watch with increasing worry as he held his head under water, air slowly bubbling out of his lung. Only when she was contemplating pulling him out of there herself did he come up for air, gasping and sputtering.

“Are you _mad_?”

“I was afraid I am, for a moment. Surely I did not hear you _apologize_ to me?”

Now it was her turn to stare wordlessly. All these theatrics, to poke fun at her for overcoming her pride? Clearly, he was doing better, and could fend for himself for the rest of the trip.

She huffed and set off down the road once more, confident that they'd both make it the short remaining trip to their house.

Within a few steps, he had caught up to her, though still so unsteady on his feet that he needed to catch himself on her shoulder.

“Ah, don't be like that, sweet wife. I only jest to soften your anger.” He looked at her for several lurching steps, studying her profile intently. “You are angry, are you not? Why else would you come after me like this?”

“I am angry, yes. Or at least, I was. But perhaps...” she hesitated. If she revealed her moment of weakness, of compassion only to be laughed at again, she would personally push him back into that fountain. “Perhaps I was too harsh with you.”

They had reached the gate to their estate in this moment, preventing him from joking about her once more. But perhaps it wasn't just the creaking of the gate that kept him from replying – perhaps he was mulling the words over, as stunned by hearing them as she was by hearing herself say them.

With the astonished door guard's help, she managed to get him up the stairs and into their bedroom, where he flopped down heavily on the bed. Half out of habit, she sank down to start unlacing his boots, before she realised how easily he could misjudge the gesture for one of subservience.

But Benvolio, she assured herself, was hardly equipped to analyze or judge any of her actions in that moment. He was staring ahead with glassy eyes, and when he did speak, it was with considerable effort.

"My memory is a little hazy, but if I'm not mistaken, I owe you my life."

"You do. It seems we're even now."

"Still, I feel like I ought to repay you somehow."

"You can repay me by trying a little harder to look like a dutiful husband. And that means no more trips to the taverns and brothels."

"A steep price," he whined.

"A fair one for both our lives and the peace in this city."

"Very well", he murmured, eyes beginning to droop, "if only because you were willing to fight one of your own for me."

And before she could make it clear that she would have been in no way ready to do any such thing, he slumped backwards onto the bed, sighed, and promptly fell asleep.

***

 

The next day, everything was the same as always – so much so that Rosaline began to think she had only imagined the night before, imagined seeing the depth of her husband's suffering and feeling her heart soften at the sight.

Benvolio was called to his uncle's house some time in the afternoon, and stayed so long that she had dinner without him. But just when she began to think he was ignoring her wishes and had set off for Via Frata once again, he appeared in the doorway to the rose garden nestled in their courtyard, where she liked to spend her evenings reading.

“Is there room here for one sorry drunkard and his bottle of wine? Apparently, I am forbidden from frequenting the city's more entertaining establishments.”

Again, reluctantly and against every principle, Rosaline had to smile. She picked up the small pile of books she had deposited on the chair next to hers, unsure which to read first, and set it aside on the table.

“There is. But only if the drunkard in question makes it up the stairs by himself tonight.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely shocked that she would joke back like this, then he smiled. It was hesitant and, she felt, a little rusty, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

“My sincerest promise.”

With that, he set down not only a bottle of wine but two glasses as well, filling them both to the brim before sliding one over to her.

“I thought we could speak a toast to our cousins, and spend an evening remembering them. No big funeral, no statues and sword-fights – just two people who loved them sharing an evening in their memory.”

He looked at her earnestly as he said it, a little nervously too as if expecting to be rejected, and she understood: This was him making her prove that she meant last night's apology. She had said she regretted not being there for him in his grief – now it was her time to prove that she would be from now on, if he wanted her to.

Without hesitation, she lifted her glass.

“To Romeo, of House Montague, and Mercutio, of Verona.”

He clinked his glass against hers softly.

“To Juliet, of House Capulet," he replied, the name ringing out across the silent garden. “May they rest in peace.”

Just saying the names of those they had lost was unimaginably painful, and from the look on his face, she could tell it was the same for him. But perhaps, saying them together made it just a little easier to bear.   

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by "It ain't me" by Selena Gomez, because that chorus in combination to thinking about Benvolio mourning his friends made me so very emotional. I feel like it didn't come out as good as I wanted it, and it sort of meanders off towards the end, but oh well, here it is.


End file.
